Chapter 4 The Reveal
Chapter4 The Reveal
The Mother of the Groom
Abigail Blakeman carefully lifted the lemon bars on the silver tray out of the back of her Mercedes sedan. She’d made her
signature baked good to accompany her announcement of the engagement to the team at the Black Rock Senior Center. She’d gotten
clearance from the bride to “post on her socials,” which made Abigail laugh. As if she had the technical skills and energy
to manage a multitude of platforms! She still wrote notes on Crane stationery. The truth was, she wasn’t waiting for Penny’s
permission anyway. She had her whole story ready for the crew at Potluck Tuesday. Plus, while these were her coworkers, they
weren’t really her people. Who would they tell?
The first time Abigail ventured into the brSC, as she would come to know it, she was a recently “retired” private school development person who was seeking discretion and conversational Italian lessons. She’d lived less than ten miles from the facility for decades and never considered it a viable option for leisure-time activities even when she crossed the threshold into senior citizen status. Why would she? Abigail and George Blakeman were club people—golf, tennis, and yachting—the last being in name only as they rarely sailed anywhere and the time they spent “at sea” was to join friends on their sailboats moored in the harbor for cocktails. But the roast beef sandwiches and holiday parties at the Fair Harbor Yacht Club were top-notch and seemed worth the dues when they had money. But the last ten years had seen their clubbiness seep away, at first monetarily, and eventually emotionally.
George Blakeman had spent the bulk of his career achieving modest to no success as a stockbroker, a true beneficiary of the
old boy network. He ultimately gave up the pretense of managing anyone’s money, especially theirs, when he was forced out
of the firm—by his Pomfret roommate, no less—after a few questionable trades. (At least questionable to his clients, who didn’t
know they were happening at all.) He turned his sights and their fortune to professional bridge, a game for which he had a
knack and now endless hours of time. But the drip, drip, dripping away of their wealth started long before George left finance
because of his terrible investments, and it accelerated with his gold watch and sad send-off party.
The prospect of them living on Abigail’s salary was laughable. She’d spent twenty years as the warm, cheery, and underpaid director of development at the Silliman School, an expensive private high school known for its low expectations and pottery program housed on the former estate of the heiress Cecelia Silliman. The main building was an English Tudor gem with, sadly, no water view. The school was a way station for C students, weirdos, and second sons and daughters who’d been booted from legit prep schools. The parents loved Abigail and gave generously because she took the time to get to know their offspring and could say to them at school events, “Benton is so gifted in ceramics,” or “Layla makes everyone smile all the time.” True statements that reassured his parents that Benton, who had very few friends and smelled like cheese, was good at something. Or that Layla, who’d been goth since the second grade, was totally likable despite the tongue stud. That’s all parents wanted, a sense that their Bentons and Laylas would one day be fine. They wrote checks to Abigail because she filled them with reassurance.
But when Silliman’s beloved headmaster retired and the board, headed by a tedious tech zillionaire, went all in on academics
and hired a STEM-focused head of school, Abigail found herself in over her head. They wanted her to run capital campaigns,
network with the high-net-worths, and even apply for grants. It was all too much. She returned to her beautiful office filled
with antiques and hand-woven rugs after the Christmas holidays prepared to give notice for her departure at the end of the
school year. She’d give the parent community enough time to organize a gracious retirement event and maybe a scholarship in
her name. But by noon on the first day back, she was informed that her services were no longer needed and by that Friday,
she was gone from Silliman. Barely even an acknowledgment for twenty years of service, except the flower arrangement sent
by the Wiggins family, whose four Silliman graduates had a long history of poor test scores, underbites, and plenty of import-export
money.
It was then that Abigail, who’d always managed the household finances, started the cost-cutting measures and the excuses in
earnest. One by one, she shed the pieces of her identity visible to the outside world that were sucking up cash. She dropped
the membership at the yacht club and switched to a golf-only plan at the country club. (She never really liked tennis anyway,
except the outfits. She would miss the cute skirts.) She jettisoned her charity commitments, like the hospital auxiliary and
the home for women in recovery, which always seemed to come with a rather hefty suggested donation in addition to hours of
volunteer time. She wrote the membership chairs lovely notes, explaining that now that she and George were retired, they wanted
to do as much traveling as possible, which of course was a lie.
They stopped attending fundraising dinners, luncheons, and any event with a silent auction. Truth was, Abigail didn’t really miss most of the social activities. She was over small talk and feigning interest in other people’s children. Her go-to excuse for not attending became something vague about using all her free time to finally organize the house and do a little downsizing. She felt like she sold it to her fellow Fair Harbor mothers and wives, who nodded in agreement, as if Saturday night were the natural time to run old stuffed animals to the Goodwill.
But it was with the heaviest heart that she withdrew from the Coventry Garden Club, an organization devoted to beautification
and that had once favored hands-on gardening over galas. Recently, the focus had changed to luxury group trips to events like
the Chelsea Flower Show or private tours of the Alhambra in Granada, none of which she could afford, even in the good old
days. Her resignation from this group felt like cutting the last tie to her privileged life as she knew it, but she told herself
that nobody noticed that Abigail Blakeman was fading away. She was simply reorganizing.
She thanked her stars that she had the sense to secure her lifetime membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution
with a hefty donation in the early aughts. She’d never give up her heritage.
Beyond the social connections, there were no opera tickets or Broadway matinees or dinners out at eateries that were not at
the golf club, where they had to use that monthly minimum. The Mercedes was old, but not quite vintage, so she kept it as
clean as she could to fool people. Thank goodness both she and George favored simple tailored clothes that never went out
of style, at least in her opinion. She felt like they were at least keeping up appearances. Weren’t they?
Abigail felt a visceral relief when her daughter, Sarah, chose to play field hockey at the University of Connecticut, a state school, rather than at Connecticut College, an expensive private school. Sarah assumed her mother’s tears were sentimental, that she was reflecting on her daughter’s years of hard work, morning lifting, and unrelenting focus on her sport, but really, Abigail wept because she knew they could hold it together financially for a few more years, until they could finally sell the house.
The damn house was both the golden goose and the clapboard noose. When George’s aunt Eleanor had left them 4701 Water Street,
it seemed like a dream come true, a genteel address that ensured a lovely life. When the couple first met in New York City,
they used Aunt Eleanor’s coastal home as a getaway from the city. Over the weekends, Abigail and Eleanor grew close, bonded
by a love of hydrangeas and gin and tonics. And George was like the son Eleanor never had. When she died, a proper Yankee
death with little fuss, no one was surprised the house went to her nephew and his wife.
New parents at the time, Abigail and George eagerly left New York City to start their suburban dream. Abigail would give up
her job at Merrill Lynch in the marketing department to stay home and care for Chase, meet other mommies, and get a Volvo
wagon and a Labrador. George would commute in and out of the city on the train and have two separate lives: a Manhattan Expense
Account life during the week and a Connecticut Golf Dad life on the weekends. It felt like they’d earned this lifestyle.
The only catch was the caveat in Aunt Eleanor’s will that they hold on to the house for thirty-two years, a specific number
that neither attorney nor family could explain. But Aunt Eleanor wanted George and Abigail to stay put—no sales, no sublets,
no substantial remodels that changed the profile of the house. (As if the zoning commission would allow such a thing in a
registered historic home.) To ensure that George and Abigail didn’t become house poor, the practical Eleanor had even created
a monetary trust for home maintenance. Abigail had complained to her friends that the Ghost of Aunt Eleanor controlled their
every financial move. But over time, she came to see the aunt’s will as a document that protected George from himself. Who
knew how many times he might have mortgaged the property to finance a bad investment?
Even with the provisions in place, George had managed to burn through the trust by their tenth wedding anniversary with home improvement projects executed by the most expensive contractors in town. “This roof was worth every dime. It will last fifty years,” George had promised at the time, not anticipating Hurricane Sandy and other extreme weather events. Still, 4701 Water Street increased in value, as the whole town benefited from the explosion of wealth in the area in recent decades. The truth was that the house was their financial salvation—but they couldn’t list it for two more years.
Abigail prayed every night they could make it through the next twenty-four months, sell for over the asking price, and move
to a resort community near Savannah. Or Hilton Head. Or anywhere with low taxes and an even lower cost of living. Abigail
and George could leave the Nutmeg State with their heads held high, as if this were their plan all along.
This engagement had given her renewed hope that could happen. Maybe if she could convince Chase and Penny to have the wedding
in Fair Harbor, there would be press and photos and the house would sell itself at top dollar. It looked gorgeous in the summer
with the garden in full bloom and the view. No one would even notice the fading paint job. Until then, she would pinch her
pennies, keep making excuses, and stash away those paychecks from the brSC in what she thought of as her slush fund bank account.
She applied for the job as a front desk clerk as a combination whim and act of desperation. She needed a break from life at
home with George and she couldn’t afford to go anywhere or do anything. The initial Conversational Italian class beget Zumba
beget Morning Joe and Mojo, or Mojo Mojo, as the regulars called it, a class where they drank coffee, walked on the treadmill,
and talked.
The more time she spent at the senior center, the more at home she felt. Her fellow seniors had so much to share, from unusual recipes to off-the-wall medical advice to stories about their personal lives that bore no resemblance to her own life whatsoever. These people had messy, complicated, loud lives, so different from the vanilla existence of her neighbors in Fair Harbor. And she loved being around them.
When Cecily, the sharp young director of the center, interviewed her for the front desk position, it was a match made in heaven.
Cecily had confidence and credentials, and Abigail wanted to be in her orbit. Even if it was at fifteen dollars an hour for
fifteen hours a week. In return, Cecily praised Abigail as a “steady, mature presence.” Exactly the role she wanted to fill.
Now she happily set off to her job two days a week and spent another two mornings a week at the center working out and socializing.
She’d never really bothered to explain to George that it was a paying job that got her out the door. He’d assumed she was
volunteering, giving away her time and talents for free like she had done for so many other organizations. It was what capable,
educated women did in Fair Harbor: take their advanced degrees and experience and give back to the community with endless
hours of volunteer work. It never would have occurred to George that it was a real job and it never would have occurred to
Abigail to tell him. Money was their second-least discussed topic; sex was the first.
Even her friends, the few she stayed in contact with after the great purge, assumed she was volunteering her time. “You’ve
become so devoted to the senior center. It’s so admirable, helping those poor old people,” Arletta Draper declared after a
catch-up chat in the produce section of the Stop & Shop. Arletta was at least seventy-five herself but saw nothing in common
with the retired social workers, teachers, plumbers, and bank tellers whom Abigail served.
Abigail had been that way once, too. But if the last few years had taught her anything, it was that there was no cultural divide a baked good couldn’t bridge. And while her lemons bars were sweet-and-sour citrus perfection, they weren’t any better than Phillipa’s wedding cookies or Ronetta’s sweet potato pie. She couldn’t wait to tell the team about her handsome, talented son, his sophisti cated fiancée, and the sparkling but frugal drinks-only engagement party she was hosting “for the neighbors,” even though the guest list included several Silliman board members, her Mommy and Me group from 1998, the DAR stalwarts, and the few former clients of George’s who’d managed to make money. (She certainly didn’t want the brSCers to feel left out, but she wasn’t ready to share her three-million-dollar view with them yet.)
Abigail pushed open the doors, silver tray balanced in one hand, and felt great about her life for the first time in years.